


Heist of the Hōgyoku

by Starrie_Wolf



Category: Bleach
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Heist AU, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 11:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17682692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: It's three days to the gala, and all the preparations are in place for the biggest heist of Shinji's career.





	Heist of the Hōgyoku

**Author's Note:**

> Written after I watched Ocean's 8...

Shinji pushes the door to the building open and is met at the elevators by the butler.

“Penthouse.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Shinji isn’t actually sure that the butler’s human, given that he’s been there every time Shinji’s turned up, be it daylight or midnight.

It’s a really nice building, Shinji has to admit, with a gorgeous view of Edo Bay and within walking distance to a dizzying plethora of little eateries – not that any of the occupants would lower themselves to _walking_ like plebians.

The elevator walls are polished to a gleaming chrome that can double as a mirror, and Shinji takes the opportunity to loosen his tie and unbutton his cuffs. There’s a fine line between artfully dishevelled and unkempt, and Shinji does hate to ruin a performance.

The elevator doors open directly into an open concept loft that looks like a photo in a home décor magazine. Shinji toes off his shoes – newly-buffed oxfords without brogues, as a nod to his favourite movie – lines them up carefully against the wall, avoiding the untidy pile of shoes on the floor.

There’s a loud cough from somewhere just inside the door.

Shinji can’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “Missed me?” he teases, finally stepping into the house.

Ichigo snorts, but Shinji doesn’t mind the lack of a verbal answer, not when the next few minutes are spent with Ichigo rather enthusiastically demonstrating exactly how much he’s missed Shinji.

They break apart for air, Shinji’s fingers questing down the thin singlet Ichigo’s wearing, toying with the top of his sweatpants.

“I see that you did,” he says teasingly.

Ichigo doesn’t deign to dignify that with an answer, just mouths along his collarbone. To help him along, Shinji strips out of his blazer and vest, leaving him in just the button-up.

“I hope you wear this on Saturday,” Ichigo mutters, grabbing the clothes before Shinji could toss them onto the floor and laying them over the nearest chair instead. “You look so good in this suit, I can’t stop staring.”

Shinji laughs, a breathless sound that betrays his feelings about the matter. “Why, so that you can climb all over me at the gala?”

He can actually see Ichigo’s eyes glazing over at the thought. “And steal the limelight from under Aizen’s nose? I _like_ the way you think.”

“Aizen’s going to be so pissed off,” Shinji agrees. If there’s one thing the Overlord of Seireitei hates, it’s seeing somebody else in the spotlight. Of course, he’s not just doing this to irritate Aizen, nor is it only because Ichigo’s expression is gorgeous when he comes.

No, it’s because the longer he can keep everyone’s attention on them, the longer his crew has to work with.

The Hōgyoku won’t steal itself, after all.

“You’ve _got_ to wear that charcoal-grey suit you had on, the first time we met.”

“The one you spilled wine all over?” Ichigo pulls back a little, a frown starting to crease his brow. “I’ve got better ones –”

“But I like you in _that_ one,” Shinji points out. He leans forward, until he’s breathing against Ichigo’s ear. “I like remembering how you looked the first time I blew you.”

Any hint of suspicion on Ichigo’s face is wiped clean in an instant. As he turns towards the bedroom, Shinji allows himself a single smirk where Ichigo can’t see him.

Three days to the gala.

All the preparations are in place.

* * *

He met Ichigo at a party.

Correction: Shinji engineered a meeting between himself and Ichigo at a party, with the judicious utilisation of several carefully-placed potted ferns and a clumsy fellow party-goer. Mashiro is the perfect wingwoman for such endeavours, with her angelic demeanour and general air of carelessness. No one would be able to guess that she used to be a circus acrobat before she came into Shinji’s employ, nor that she could walk a tightrope blindfolded if necessary.

Whatever the _cause_ for the meeting, though, the end result was the important part. Shinji had walked into the party with nothing but the clothes on his back – stolen, of course, though the owner had so many identical suits, he wouldn’t notice it missing for a very long time if at all.

He walked out with first-hand knowledge of what Kurosaki Ichigo – the most eligible playboy bachelor in Seireitei – looked like in the throes of orgasm, and an invitation to the most exclusive gala in Seireitei, hosted by none other than Overlord Aizen in his very own mansion, where he kept his most prized jewel: the Hōgyoku.

Not bad for a guy slumming it in an abandoned warehouse with the rest of his crew, narrowly having escaped the Chamber of Forty-Six barely a hundred days prior, Shinji would say.

It’s three days to the heist. His crew is in place, their entrance and exit routes secured, and Shinji has a solid ticket to the gala as long as he keeps Ichigo satisfied. All in all, a perfect job.

* * *

“We have a problem,” Lisa announces, bursting into their bedroom without even knocking. Then she stops. Blinks furiously.

Shinji sighs and gives up on covering himself, given that Ichigo’s still sprawled completely naked on top of the covers and doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to budge.

“Heard of _knocking_ , Lise?” His voice comes out mostly disinterested, but he knows he didn’t fully cover up his spike of anxiety. Lisa never exaggerates; if anything, she’s a mistress of _understatements_. Her idea of a ‘problem’ is usually someone else’s idea of a catastrophe.

“Heeeey honey,” Ichigo drawled, turning over onto his side. Shinji can’t see his face, but he can see the artful languid sprawl Ichigo’s now in, and judging by the blush rapidly creeping up Lisa’s neck, it’s working.

It’s working on Shinji too, but he wrenches his eyes from admiring Ichigo’s toned thighs and up to Lisa.

She jerks her head slightly, in a clear sign of ‘ditch your boytoy we need to talk outside’.

“Sorry love.” Shinji kisses him lightly on the cheek, rolling out of bed. “Lisa needs help, uh, picking lube flavours. Stay right here, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed, okay?”

Ichigo pouts, but obligingly stays put as Shinji follows Lisa out into the living room, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.

“It couldn’t have waited?” he demands, rounding on Lisa the moment they are alone.

“Sorry boss.” Lisa doesn’t look very sorry. “It’s an emergency.” She flips up the lid of her laptop screen, showing an ongoing Skype call with half the Visoreds crammed on the other side.

“The whole display room is covered in laser beams,” Rose begins without aplomb. “And there’s motion sensors covering the base of the display case. If you move the Hōgyoku a millimetre to any side, you set one of them off.”

“I thought we accounted for those,” Shinji interrupts. “We strap someone into a harness, lower them from the ceiling, and they use tongs to lift the Hōgyoku straight up?”

“That was before we found out the lasers are mobile, idiot Baldy!” Hiyori snarls, shoving her face into the camera. “Even you with your freaky balance can’t possibly get through the room, drill a hole in the case, catch the glass before it sets off any motion sensors, and pull the Hōgyoku up in a completely straight line, _while_ dodging moving lasers at the same time!”

“... oh,” Shinji manages to say.

That’s... yeah, that’s a problem.

Rose has steady hands under pressure and experience with wire manipulation, and he’s flexible, but not that flexible, not to dodge some of the impossible conformations the laser beams can come in. Mashiro might be able to do the acrobatics required without a harness, but she can’t guarantee she won’t set off any of the motion sensors.

He doesn’t think anyone on his team can.

“Is something wrong?”

Shinji _jumps_. He’s sure he’d be teased about it later, if it isn’t for the fact that Lisa gave an aborted little scream.

“Ichigo, love,” he gasps, over the pounding of his heart. “Didn’t I tell you to wait in bed?”

Ichigo’s leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, clad – in a loose sense of the term – in a long bathrobe that he’s left untied at the front. At least he put on some boxers, though they are so tight they look painted on.

Ichigo pouts at him. “I came to see what took you so long,” he whines. “You know, if you were looking for good brands of lube, I can totally recommend some!” he tells Lisa, earnestly.

There’s a choked-off laugh from the laptop. Shinji thinks it’s Kensei.

Well. He is, frankly, at a loss. Shinji knows lots of people in their profession, but no one who’d be willing to come in so last-minute on a job this big, no one he can trust.

“Say, Ichigo – do you know anyone really, _really_ flexible?”

He can hear hisses from the laptop speakers, but his eyes are on Ichigo.

“Sure!” Ichigo says brightly. “Want me to call him for you?”

He wants to say yes, but –

“That depends,” Shinji drawls, leaning closer, “on how much it’ll cost me.”

It’s like seeing a switch getting flipped. Ichigo’s expression doesn’t change, but he just shifts a little, changes his stance or something, and _somehow_ looks like a completely different person. “How about for free?” he asks.

It’s a tone Shinji’s not used to hearing from him. Even during their initial negotiation – a share of the money for Ichigo’s continued cooperation – Ichigo had kept up the airy, flirty tone. But now the sure-fire job’s going completely sideways, the rest of his team is having a complete meltdown, and Ichigo’s just casually fishing his phone out of his pocket and hitting speed dial like he can’t hear the screaming.

“Hey,” he says into the phone, warm and affectionate instead of his usual flirtatious tone, “listen, can you come over for a bit? I need you.” He pauses, expression going wry. “No, it’s not a booty call – if I was going to do that I’d call your work number, not your personal cell. Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up and raises an eyebrow at Shinji.

“You don’t even know the kind of person we need, Baldy!” Hiyori shrieks through the speakers, evidently having recovered her lung function. “It’s not for some weird sex thing, you know!”

“‘Course I do,” Ichigo says dismissively. “You just need an acrobat who’s used to working without a harness and has steady hands, yeah? I know a guy from the Onmitsukidō, that do for you?”

He tugs the fridge door open and pulls out the carton of milk, and then snags the cereal and a bowl from the cupboard.

“Hirako Shinji...” begins Lisa, dangerously. Shinji flinches, because while the rest can’t hurt him through a screen, she’s got nine-inch heels on and not afraid to use it.

 _Help_ , he mouths to Ichigo.

Ichigo leans against the countertop and shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“They’re your team, not mine,” he points out, annoyingly reasonably. Shinji still can’t get over the little Japanese lilt to his accent when Ichigo’s no longer faking posh airheaded playboy. “I told you from the start – I don’t drop cover for anyone. Not unless I have to.”

Shinji wants to argue against that, but really, he can’t.

“How much did you hear?” he finally asks instead. He thought he’s good, but none of them heard Ichigo come out of the bedroom or through the living room until he spoke.

Ichigo arches one finely-plucked eyebrow.

“All of it,” he deadpans.

That can’t be possible; surely he’d have noticed if Ichigo had opened the bedroom door while he and Lisa were still in the living room.

Ichigo rolls his eyes, stabbing his spoon at the ceiling. “Security cameras. You think there’s anything going on in my own house that I won’t know?”

Shinji looks up, but he doesn’t see anything.

Of course, the best cameras are invisible.

And since Ichigo’s in on the plan, Shinji’s never had cause to sweep his house.

“Of course,” Ichigo’s saying, “I mostly use them to make sex tapes. But you and your team’s been kind enough to talk so loud, the recorders can’t miss you if they _tried_.”

He tosses the spoon back into the empty bowl, turns his back on Shinji, and strolls to the sink.

“Lisa!” Shinji snaps, stretching out a hand to catch her, but it’s already too late, she’s too far –

Without even looking back, Ichigo kicks unerringly at the side of her knees, spins around, and drops down on top of her.

Lisa freezes.

Shinji can’t blame her. He would too if there’s a fork pressed to his external jugular, Ichigo’s expression like carved marble. There’s a bit of pasta sauce stuck to it from last night, the red sauce macabre against Lisa’s fair skin like a warning.

“You get one free test.” Ichigo’s voice is cold. “I won’t be so kind the next time.”

Lisa struggles a little, like she’s suicidal. “Or what?”

“Or you’ll have to answer to _me_.”

Shinji jolts around to find that, somehow, there’s now a blond man leaning against the doorjamb in eerie imitation of what Ichigo had done earlier. A man whom he’s definitely never seen in the apartment before, because Shinji _recognises_ him.

Urahara Kisuke, the eccentric reclusive head of the mega conglomerate Gikongan, number one supplier of the world’s technological needs.

“Who are _you_?” spits Hiyori, once Shinji spins the laptop around so they can see him. Shinji’s 90% sure she’s just doing it to rile him up, because there’s no way Hiyori didn’t recognise Urahara of all people. She used to have the _worst_ crush on him back in school.

“Oh, just a passing humble shopkeeper.” Urahara snaps a paper fan open, beaming at her like he can’t sense the killing intent roiling off her. Shinji wonders if he’ll be willing to say that to her face.

As if to protest the way they seem to have almost forgotten about her, Lisa makes another noise of outrage.

Urahara sighs slowly, like a man put-upon. He snaps his fan shut.

Shinji doesn’t register anything more than a high-speed blur.

The... throwing knife, he identifies it now, embeds itself quivering barely an inch from Lisa’s nose.

“Do try to behave yourself while a guest in someone else’s home, Miss Yadōmaru,” Urahara informs her.

Shinji takes a step back.

 _A guy from the Onmitsukidō_ , Ichigo had said.

The Onmitsukidō, the most elite stealth security team in the world. _Ninjas_ , as the laypeople call them. Rare is the operative caught in person, and nobody Shinji knows has ever seen one of them unmasked.

Except him now, apparently. Possibly.

Urahara smiles at him, and it’s like being caught in the jaws of a shark while he decides if you’re a tasty morsel.

“Behave, Kisuke,” Ichigo scolds him lightly, lips jutting out in an actual pout.

Shinji almost gets a heart attack when Urahara leans over casually and brushes his lips over Ichigo’s cheek, a gesture of absent-minded affection that makes Shinji’s mouth drop open. He’s known, of course – Ichigo has made it a point to emphasise to Shinji right from the beginning that he’s got other lovers and has no plans to be exclusive with Shinji – but he’s been expecting a few friends with benefits, not… this.

It’s a good thing Ichigo’s not looking at him right now.

“So, Kisuke – hypothetically speaking, if I asked you if you can rappel up those monstrosities Aizen pretends are pillars in Las Noches, manoeuvre through a series of moving laser beams, and lift the Hōgyoku from its display case – what would you need?”

Shinji pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Hypothetically speaking?” Urahara asks drily. “I’d need the blueprints to Las Noches, the security patrol schedule, the programmed laser patterns, the time interval between beams, practice with the glass cutter and wires preferably in as close a simulation as you can get me, and a kiss for luck.”

Ichigo smirks, hooks an arm around Urahara’s neck, and then proceeds to back him against the counter and make out with him like he’s forgotten he still has an audience.

“You’re Onmi,” Shinji says woodenly. No wonder the flawless act, the casually dangerous way Ichigo holds himself when he’s not pretending to be a complete airhead, the reluctance to drop his mask even when they’re alone. He’s fucking _Onmitsukidō._

“I’m not,” Ichigo disagrees. “My idiot dad got me one for a bodyguard, though.”

Urahara tips his head at Shinji. He should look ridiculous in that green-and-white ensemble, but the only sense Shinji can get from him is _danger_. Lisa is staying by the sink, and Shinji can’t really blame her. He has no doubt that Urahara can kill both of them before they can even blink.

“What can I say?” Ichigo shrugs seemingly helplessly. “I’ve got a weakness for hot, blond and competent.”

“… competent,” Urahara repeats, and only then does Shinji realise the assassin is looking directly at him.

Ichigo shoves at him a little. “Yes. I want to keep this one.”

“Competent at warming your bed when I must play the guise of the harmless shopkeeper?” Urahara asks pointedly. His tone is more blandly curious than accusatory, but Shinji bristles anyway. He’s not suicidal enough to rebut Urahara though.

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “A little more than that. Don’t scare him away, will you?” The smile he tosses at Shinji tells him that he’s probably just joking, but Shinji feels his heart skip a beat anyway. Shit.

_Shit._

He _likes_ Ichigo.

How did that happen?

Ichigo’s funny, competent, and great in bed – but he’s also quite obviously already claimed by someone from the only organisation Shinji dares not to cross. Urahara has more than proven that the name _ninja_ is not a misnomer, and that Shinji is so outclassed it’s not even funny.

But Ichigo is still grinning at him like he’s waiting for Shinji to share the joke, and so he pastes on a Cheshire grin.

The job has to come first.

* * *

Working with Ichigo is like a dream come true. He’s an amazing partner, responding to Shinji’s thoughts as though he can actually read Shinji’s mind. Shinji has barely thought about surveying the entrance hall when Ichigo is already stumbling over a mysteriously untied shoelace and has to stagger to the side to retie it, somehow guiding them in a such a way that Shinji can get a good look at all the security cameras in place.

Closed circuit, of course. No matter, Hachigen can hack through anything.

The Hōgyoku is stored on the topmost floor of Las Noches, with the entire floor dedicated to its display case. The invite to the gala includes a tour of the mansion, including that floor, which is what Shinji had been banking on. Aizen will have to deactivate half the security measures in order to allow all the guests safe passage, and his crew will use that time to get into position.

They’re dawdling at the back of their tour group, ostensibly so that Ichigo can hide how he’s apparently more interested in leaving more marks on Shinji’s neck than Aizen’s vast collection of curiosities, when Ichigo’s entire body stiffens against his.

“Something’s wrong,” he hisses into Shinji’s ear, nibbling lightly on the earlobe.

Shinji breathes through the wave of lust, trying to clear his head enough to think. “Hmm?”

Whatever Ichigo has been about to say next is drowned out by the sudden shrill blast of alarms going off everywhere, so loud that Shinji’s mind briefly goes blank. He bites his lip until he draws blood, and the pain helps him to focus a little better, enough that he can sprint after Ichigo – who is, somehow, less affected than he is – into the Hōgyoku’s Chamber.

He’s just in time to see a fist-sized blue stone come flying in the direction of the doorway, Aizen’s face a terrible mask of rage as he charges forward, and Ichigo reaching out to catch it.

And then –

The –

– world –

s p l i n t e r s

 _apart_ –

* * *

He’s Hirako Shinji, thirty-six, and a successful master thief working in Seireitei.

He’s Hirako Shinji, three hundred and sixty, and a former captain of the Gotei.

* * *

The world tilts on its axis, spins, and resets.

* * *

Shinji groans. His head is splitting open, but he massages at his temples, and somehow manages to force his eyes open.

He stares.

Aizen is lying on the ground, apparently unconscious. All around them, the party guests – no, the Gotei captains and the Arrancars – are rousing from their respective stupors, clutching at their heads. A few of the weaker-stomached ones are already throwing up all over what Shinji is belatedly recognising as Fake Karakura Town.

Ichigo is still standing in front of him, hand outstretched. He can’t seem to believe what is happening either, which makes… all of them, Shinji supposes.

That was a…

“An alternate reality, constructed from its owner’s deepest desire.”

Shinji’s head snaps around, and the he immediately wishes that he didn’t. Kisuke is standing a few steps away, his hat tipped forwards to block half of his face from view.

Ichigo opens his fist. There’s a fading blue glow in his palm, one that winks out of existence just as he does so.

“Thank you very much, Kurosaki-san.” Kisuke bows, the movement slow and deliberate. Shinji can’t tell it’s because Kisuke’s head is pounding just like his own, or it’s a gesture of sincere gratitude.

Kisuke’s eyes dart to Ichigo’s. He looks like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just inclines his head at Ichigo again and then flits away in a bout of shunpo.

Shinji is moving to intercept before he’s even quite realised it – and immediately wishes that he didn’t. By the look on Kisuke’s and, unsurprisingly enough, Ichigo’s faces, they’re feeling the same way.

Kisuke turns away slowly, gingerly. He doesn’t try to run again. Shinji will agree with him that it’s futile; Ichigo is just stubborn enough and fast enough to catch up.

“My apologies for my transgressions, Kurosaki-san. Please, seek any reparation you feel necessary.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Ichigo’s fists ball up at his sides, and Shinji is half-expecting him to punch Kisuke straight in the face, but he just forces them open again. And then clench, and then open again.

He snags Kisuke by the front of his robe before Kisuke can make a break for it, shunpo-induced vertigo or not.

“No.”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“I told you in that reality that I love you, and my feelings haven’t changed!” Ichigo shouts.

It’s a good thing that they’re a fair distance away from the rest of the combatants. Shinji kind of regrets following them now; he can only blame it on the residual effects of the all-too-real… wish? Dream? Alternate reality?

He tries to subtly get away, but the movement catches Ichigo’s attention.

“And you!” Ichigo snaps, grabbing Shinji’s hand before he can leave Ichigo and Kisuke to their awkward confession. “I meant what I said back then, every word of it!”

There’s a blush creeping up his neck, a weakness that dream-Ichigo would never have shown, but real-Ichigo doesn’t let go of either of them.

Slowly, Kisuke tips his hat back until his gaze meets Shinji’s. There’s resignation, faint wry humour… and, yes. The same affection that Shinji saw directed at Ichigo in that dream. Judging by those reactions, they’re still the same people as the ones he’s known in the dream, just in a different situation.

Shinji clears his throat. “Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You want both of us. At the same time.”

Ichigo’s entire face turns an angry, blotchy red. “Well, maybe not _at the same time_ , unless you – ah. I mean, yes?”

Shinji meets Kisuke’s eyes again.

“I think we can make it work,” he says carefully.


End file.
